In the coastal Pacific Northwest, where I was born and raised, there really are only two seasons – rain, and less rain. While the outdoors were always green, lush, and vibrant, you never really had the four season experience, unless you were willing and able to travel. My father and I would often drive over the coastal mountains inland to get a taste of a true hot summer, and to see a little snow in the winter. It was quite a drive, and we weren’t able to make the journey as often as I would have liked. As a result, my memories of the coast are mostly wet, foggy, and damp. It had a beauty all its own, especially with the wild ocean and towering Redwood trees close at hand, but seasonal transitions were slow, gray, and very undecided. I enjoyed being able to fish all year-round, and often the only choice was whether to wear a rainslicker or doubled down flannel; but if you were having a difficult year, sometimes it was hard to mentally and emotionally turn the page and reset. Struggling with melancholy since a boy, it was often a challenging environment for me. But then I moved to the Midwest.

Moving to northern Illinois was a real change from my boyhood home on the coast. We moved in August of 1991, the height of a hot, dry summer, and it was wonderful. No rain, unless there was a brief, but intense thunderstorm, and then days again of beautiful sun. With sunlight gloriously present until late in the evening on the flat plains, and warm dry breezes to enjoy on my outdoor adventures, I was smitten. I even discarded my flannel!

When fall came, the change in the air was sharp and well-defined. The vast array of the colors of the leaves became vibrant with the changing atmosphere, and by their almost imperceptible daily changes, marked the slowly decreasing moisture levels as the dry, chill, fall air, slowly overtook them. Their transformation completed, they gently fell to the earth and the suddenly unclothed environment exposed the stark contrasts of the previously hidden forest. As fall marched on, heretofore concealed rock formations, nests of various small forest creatures, and the now bared trunks of massive oaks, their scars of the past season now fully exposed, became visible to all the world. There are no secrets in late fall, and everything is as it became over the past year, with no deception.

And then came winter. The marked change for this season was certainly more pronounced than the California winters to which I was previously accustomed. The snow descended ever so softly, but persistently. And it kept coming, often for hours or days, until the whole world was concealed in pure white. The silence stopped me in my tracks during my first winter forays. On the coast, the bustling of the forest creatures continued unabated, as their habitats, while certainly more damp, nevertheless endured the changes of the seasons with little disruption. Not so here in the midwest, I discovered. While at first unsettling, I soon came to realize that the blanket of snow silently sealed the past, as stoutly as the most secure lockbox. And while hidden under the snow, subtle changes to the land and water trails were created by this stealth-like force. Unseen and unheard, the powerful machinations worked its magic, and the landscape was indeed wholly new and refreshing when spring at last came and the snow melted and retreated as silently as it had arrived.

Every year now, for almost thirty years, I have enjoyed this remarkable transformation. It never disappoints. I often fish, hunt, and hike in the same local lakes, hills, and sandstone bluffs, year after year. But each spring, I nevertheless find myself in an almost wholly new environment that is familiar, yes, but very much changed, and this results in wholly new and fascinating experiences for me. What a blessing.

After the year 2020 has been for all of us, with its many challenges and hardships, and with the first strong blanket of snow recently having settled and commenced its silent work, I am looking forward more than ever to this winter. I am confident that this winter, as in past years, will remain faithful and true to form, and work its much needed unseen transformations. I can’t wait for the new world that awaits in the coming months.

copyright 2021 by D. James Clark